Twenty Four Seconds
by The Readers Muse
Summary: "Twenty four seconds was longer then she thought it would be. She hadn't counted on that."


**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

**Authors**** Note ****#1:** This is a fiction that was inspired by a prompt I posted February 2011 on the LJ community _Beware__ of__ Walkers_. The prompt was: _"__The__ thoughts__ going__ through__ Jacquie's__ head __in__ the __last __20 __seconds__ before__ the __CDC__ blew __up.__"_ But my muse took me in a slightly different direction and far beyond the word maximums allowed for this particular challenge. Therefore, I decided to just go with it and post it by itself.

**Authors ****Note**** #2:** Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think! I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism. I realize that Jacqui doesn't seem to be a popular character in this fandom, especially at the moment. But I do think she was a character of interest and thus deserving of some examining on her own. Hopefully someone else out there agrees with me.

**Twenty Four Seconds**

Twenty four seconds was longer then she thought it would be. She hadn't counted on that. Because it gave her time to think of all the things she hadn't let herself think about in _months_. Things that had gotten lost in the shuffle, in the panic and stress of those first few days, and were never dwelled on again afterward. Too caught up in just _surviving_ to pay the subtle intricacies of the past any real mind. Always half afraid that she would find far too much regret then she could rightly deal with if she did.

She supposed, as strange as it might sound. That she didn't want this, this handful of moments in which to reflect. She didn't want to look back on her life and think of all the things she _could_ of have done. All the things she _should _have done. She didn't want to be reminded of all the missed chances, of the times where she should have tried just a little bit harder to reconnect with a loved one, or go out of the way for a friend.

_God knows the road to perdition was paved with good intentions.._

She thought of Atlanta. About how it used to be, and how it was now. But the contrast was too stark. Because now was all wrong, empty cities, empty streets, and empty homes. It wasn't supposed to be like this. A city was never supposed to be empty; it went against everything an urban center stood for. She shivered in place, marveling all the while that that profound emptiness, that desolation, still had the potency to scare her. …Chilling her down to her very core.

Instead she forced herself to look over at the security monitors, watching unabashedly as Daryl's muscles strained, axe swinging like he had nothing else left but the anger and hurt he carried around him like a shield. Letting it all loose, everything he _had_, everything he _was_, on the security glass that blocked their way even as Shane leaped to his side and joined him. _She__ hoped__ they__'__d __make __it._

In the end, more then anything else, it was that emptiness that caused her to run. A city was supposed to be a bustling hive of productivity, stagnation, and progress. Ever moving…Ever expanding. It was supposed to move, to grow, and to _improve_. But with the infection, Atlanta had withered up. Dying like a vegetable rotting on a vine, spreading its sickness from the inside out. The downtown core had been the first to go; it had simply been a matter of physics and time. It all came down to the ratio of people versus buildings, the numbers finally outweighing that of free space, making it logistically impossible for the population to escape in any significant percentage as debris and the dead turned every narrow city street into death trap. It was like a game of Russian roulette that had melded together with that of a war zone, hemming in streams of screaming people. Growing until they were simply a pushing, squirming, _crushing_ tangle that strained against openings that only got smaller by the minute. The dead nipping at their heels and bringing them down one after another with a terrible, melee-like precision.

_..She had seen friends in that crowd. ..Children. It didn't matter. The dead had taken them all.._

She blinked once, her eyes growing tired and heavy. It felt like she hadn't slept in years. Like she had never completely come off that horror filled, adrenaline spiked high they'd all been living on until this very moment, the moment where she had made her decision. …_God__ she__ was __tired._

It felt like she hadn't been at rest since that first day. The day where this virus..this _infection_ became more then just some secondary story squeaking its way into the middle of the six o'clock news. The day where the sound of emergency sirens blaring down the city streets seemed closer and far more frequent then she had ever remembered hearing them. Even for downtown Atlanta. The day where bloody hand prints had pockmarked the heavy metal doors in the parking garage that led into the office, the sight giving her pause, hands going slack around her purse in shock and confusion. With only the small, echoing click of her high heels signalling her overly cautious retreat back to the car. She had doubled checked her doors as she'd tumbled in, whipping her seat belt around waist, mind racing as any number of a thousand different scenarios flicked through her horrified mind.

_She hadn't known then. None of them had._

All she knew was that she hadn't seen that much blood since her stint in the projects, surveying the low income housing for bylaw infractions over ten years ago. Back when she first started at the zoning office. _Atlanta __had__ been__ a__ different__ animal__ then._ But then again, she'd always liked a challenge. That was why she had been working for the city in the first place. She thrived on the fierce, cut throat nature of the business, the monetary challenges and the executive deadlines. You had to be on the top of your game all the time and the competitor inside her had been completely wooed by the professions highly charged atmosphere.

She remembered how she had had vague plans of calling 911. Mind buzzing with the sight even as she fished around one armed in her purse for her cell, backing out her spot as the metal plaque that bore her name, glinted a dull, sallow yellow under the sickly, florescent lights. Thinking she would go up through the main entrance instead. Gavin and Andrew, the building's security guards would surely know what was going on. They always knew the best office gossip.

_Only she had never made it there._

Because the staggered groups of listless people she had only half noticed shambling along the sidewalks as she had driven in, where actually_ not_ just the poor, caffeine deprived souls she had originally taken them to be. _They__ were__ something __else_. But more then anything, she remembered that it had been a Monday. And somehow, even now, she found that she couldn't help but crack a smile at that.

_After all, the world **would** end on a Monday._

She thought about regrets. Of not stopping often enough to truly enjoy the little things in life. All those stupid things that one inevitably takes for granted, things like walking down the street for no other purpose but to let your feet flirt with the concrete. Things like grabbing a pint of her favorite Gelato at the creamery three blocks from her flat, indulging in a few spoonfuls the icy treat as she relaxed on the couch, watching her favorite soaps on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

She would miss things like going for cheese steaks at Woody's with her friends from work. Unwinding after a long day with a meal she knew she would regret when she hopped on the scale the next morning. But never failed to show up to their favorite table every second week, ready to banter good naturedly with the others over a tall glass of Chenin Blanc, flying high on good food and even better company.

She would miss the simple, artistic intimacy of a romantic evening at Nikolai's Roof. She had only been there a handful of times, with the rich French and Russian cuisine being far above her usual price range. But every time she did. As she sat out on the balcony, taking in the view from the restaurant that looked out into the heart of downtown Atlanta, no matter which well meaning gentleman had decided to spring for the Grand Marnier Soufflé and grilled Swordfish, it was _that_ magnificent view that had never failed to feel like a victory.

She thought about Magnus, the feral tomcat she'd slowly been taming, spoiling the thing unashamedly with fresh tidbits of salmon from the oriental market down the street. Waiting on tender hooks for the day the affable feline would finally let her stroke his gorgeous tortoise shell fur. She wondered if he had finally slipped in through that half open window she'd been feeding him from, pacing the abandoned rooms of her apartment in search of her. Bottle-brush tail puffed up and indignant as his expectant purrs slowly thrummed to a stop. She wondered, somewhat idly, if he actually missed her.

_It was so hard to tell with cats sometimes._

When the clock ticked past the ten second mark she forced herself to stop looking. She could still feel it though. The seconds clicking by, long and measured as they waited. …Sitting docile and reserved for the end. _She__ wondered__ if__ the__ others__ would__ judge __her __for__ that.__ She __wondered __if__ it would even matter if they did._

It was strange, but she thought she would have been more scared. Perhaps even panicked or seized with a terrifying change of heart as the seconds continued to sneak past. But she didn't. She wasn't. And perhaps that in itself was a testament to the nature of things. Because despite the quiet tears and an overwhelming sense of finality, an alleviating calm had descended. Blanketing over the tattered remnants of fear and panic, bringing with it a comfort she could hardly describe.

_..Because __this__ was__ what__ she __had__ been __looking__ for__ all__ along.__** This.**__ Ever__ since__ Jim,__ ever__ since __the__ quarry,__ ever __since __Atlanta,__ and__ ever__ since __that__ first, __terrible__ day..__Control__…_She was ending it yes.. But she was doing it on her _own_ damn terms.

She thought about Steven. From Human resources down on the fifth floor, a man with a voice as sweet as sugar cane and a rich New Orleans accent to match. It had been the kind of deep, rolling bass that dripped slowly off the tongue. Folding in on itself until the sweet, lingering echoes had thickened, swirling in the recycled air above their heads like a trip for the senses. He had had a kind face and a luminous, mega-watt smile that had never failed to make her smile in kind. His personality and effervescent good humor attracting her as surely as a fly to honey.

But mostly, she wondered what lay beyond those twenty four seconds. Would the world keep on turning? Would things eventually get better? Or would things simply stay the same, continuing on same, steadily degrading path until the last soul on earth was extinguished and things just…ended. Would the dead remain as the only testament to everything humanity had achieved, and striven for since the beginning of time? Since the advent of rational thought and complex language? Was this truly it for them?

_..She wondered because she knew she wouldn't live to see it. She had made her choice, her last choice. The only thing she had that was truly hers in these crazy days.._

And it the fire came, unlike that man holding tight to the hand at her side, mushrooming up and outward with a deafening, percussive rush. She faced it with her eyes wide open, small hand tingling as strong and surprisingly thick fingers dug into her skin. Squeezing around hers just once, as if in affirmation the moment before the world exploded in a bright flume of searing heat and high color…

**A/N:** Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

_You__ cannot __always __control__ what __goes__ on__ outside.__ But__ you__ can__ always__ control__ what__ goes__ on __inside.__ - __Wayne__ Dyer_


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